Untitled (32 page)

   "A lady took pity on me; she offered me a home, and in return I was to help her. I should have trusted in God—He provides if you let Him." She sighs. "It's like slavery, isn't it? You have no life of your own, no money because you can't pay a lady a real salary, no matter how far she has sunk. She even took away my name—she was called Victoria too, so I became Cissy, from my middle name, Cecilia, which she thought
unsuited to my circumstances
."

   "You were a paid companion, then?"

   "Yes," she tells them sourly. "If you want to call it paid. And then when Henry came along—" She allows herself a brief smile. "You cannot imagine how that was, a man like him paying attention to me."

   Robert props his elbows on his knees. This woman, he thinks, has been through so very much. Are they wronging her further? He watches Mina, hoping she'll look at him so that he can signal her to stop, but she pays him no attention. All this, he thinks, could end in humiliation, and he bites his teeth together as he thinks of Vilaseca. Danforth had seemed so sure. All those coincidences piling up until he couldn't see past them—there'd seemed no room for doubt.

   His neck prickles. Maybe Danforth wanted to trick him, to encourage him to get involved in the case, to make a fool of himself and anthropometry. That can't be right, though—Danforth was the one to organize the demonstration, and who assured Renfrew that there was a compelling motive for it all. He's a clever man in a dogged way, but he's not cunning.

   Once more, the question of who broke into the study nudges him. Perhaps it wasn't Danforth: the maid didn't recognize him. Could it have been someone connected to the widow? She's lied to them, maybe she's lying still. Maybe she's up to more than simply getting her hands on Henry's money.

   Yet that, he thinks, is taking suspicion too far. Isn't it?

   Across the hearth, Mina takes a sip of her tea. Her cup knocks ever so gently against the saucer. When she looks up it is with a slight smile. She sighs, says, "It's curious that there appears to be no record of your marriage."

   The widow starts as though she has been stuck with a pin. Her face flushes a deep, uneven red. "How dare you," she lets out. "How dare you accuse me—"

   "My dear, you appeared out of nowhere. Not a word about you from Henry. What should we have thought?" She lets her hand rest against her chest. "Are we to believe that you married without benefit of a clergyman or witnesses? Or without it being made a matter of public record?"

   The widow gets to her feet, her flushed face wild against the black of her dress, her elbows clenched to her sides. "You can believe what you'd like. The truth of the matter lies at the bottom of the sea, doesn't it?" She stumbles against a small table, and its vase rattles dangerously. For an instant she stares at it, then rushes across to the door.

   Robert gets up to close it behind her. He hears the drumming of her feet across the landing, then up the stairs to the bedrooms, but he doesn't catch the other footsteps, the ones that tread softly downstairs to the kitchen.

       
J
ane has brought up a bucket of coals and now she knocks. "Ma'am?" she calls softly. "Will you let me in to make up the fire?" No reply, but then she expected none.

   After all, she has betrayed this woman.

   Gently, she lays her hand on the doorknob and twists it, ever so slowly. It is still locked. "Are you hungry, ma'am? Cook has made pies today. Or can I bring you a cup of tea?" She waits, head inclined towards the door. Nothing. "I'll fetch some anyway, just in case. Because you must be parched, ma'am."

   So she goes down to the kitchen, and gets Elsie to put on water for tea, though Mrs. Johnson says it's a bother at this time of the day. Mrs. Johnson wants to know: Is the widow ill? Or is she in a sulk over something? Jane shrugs and cuts a slice of ham pie.

   She's back not more than a quarter of an hour later. The bucket of coal is gone, a chamber pot modestly covered with a cloth of its place. She sets down the tray, calls out, "Ma'am? Don't let the tea sit too long or it'll stew." Her voice falls flat against the closed door.

   She took such care to make the widow like her, and trust her, it is hard to stop herself now. Is there comfort in tea and a slice of pie? A small measure, perhaps, but as much as she can provide. If she could she would explain that she had no choice, because she has secrets of her own.

   Instead she rests one hand against the wood of the door, as someone would who wants to calm a nervous horse. "I'm sorry," she whispers, then hurries away down the corridor.

Chapter 26

H
e has done his best to erase all suggestion that he may not be quite what he seems: he has had his hat reblocked, his gloves cleaned, though of course there is nothing like a new pair. Despite his efforts, the landlady looks at him with a face creased with suspicion. Is it the cut of his coat, which, he has to admit, is distinctly démodé? Or does something of prison life cling to him, like a bad odor that cannot be got rid of ?

   "Well, Mr. Fleet," she says, hands on her hips and her flaccid face a little red, "I don't usually take gentlemen"—in her mouth the word sounds like something spoiled—"without their being recommended."

   He pulls himself up as straight as he can and gives her what he hopes is an avuncular smile. "My dear Mrs. Jasper, of course not. But as I think you will understand, since I have lived abroad for so long, it is difficult to furnish the sort of reassurances you require."

   "I have to be careful, as I'm sure
you u
nderstand. I wouldn't want anyone of a questionable character to lodge here." She sets her pale blue eyes on his, and he raises his eyebrows.

   "Oh, indeed," he says, and looks around the bleak room with its bed crammed in next to a chest of drawers, and a murky window right above it that threatens to let in draughts. Could Steiner really find him nothing better? "I can appreciate that you would only want the best sort of gentleman here." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purse. "Would three months' rent in advance convince you of my character?" He smiles broadly, but not too broadly—he doesn't want a note of sarcasm to ruin everything.

   "Plus payment in advance for your dinners? That will be acceptable." She has the nerve to hold out her hand right then and there.

   He counts the coins into it with a lightness that almost convinces him that there are plenty more where they came from. Of course that's not possible, not after the expense of finding her—who would have imagined that after he was locked up, she'd have thought to show such initiative as to cheat
him
? She has led him a merry dance—he pictures her swinging her hips and glancing at him over her shoulder, keeping herself just out of reach. Not that she ever did such a thing; she's not the type. No, she is a serious woman and always was. Serious about robbing him too. Everything from their life together sold off as though he had died and left her to survive as best she could. And now it turns out, the strongbox—empty. He didn't think she even knew it existed, let alone where he'd hidden it away.

   At last he has her now—or almost. Her house is only a short walk from here. Will he knock at the door and ask for her? The thought of it makes him smile. But that is not his way. It never was.

   Mrs. Jasper's hand snaps shut on the coins. "Dinner at six sharp," she says. With that she's off, leaving him in possession of the dingy room with its weary wallpaper curling from the walls.

   He goes to the window. With a few good shoves he opens it. Across the street are more houses like this one, houses trying to keep up an appearance of modest gentility. It is not these houses that interest him, though. He stands in the cold wind coming through the window and cranes his neck. A little down the hill a ridge of higher roofs stands out: Cursitor Road.

Chapter 27

T
hese days when Jane comes out of Price's room it is all in a rush. She hasn't got used to it, that heavy smell of soiled linen and an unwashed body, of staleness and despair. Because that's what it is— Price has given up. On her own life, on the world at large. So she lies in the only place she can lay any claim to, drinking little, eating less, though Jane has taken the trouble to spoon broth between her cracked lips. No wonder the doctor won't let her be moved—have the Bentleys tried? Jane isn't sure. She overheard the doctor prescribe a tonic, but he added that Price would need rest until her strength is regained and her spirits restored.

   As though there is any hope that Price's spirits can be restored.

   It has occurred to her that Price's fate is that of any servant who outlives her usefulness. You devote yourself to your employer, you let your own life slip away, and one day you find yourself too old or sick or outmoded to be of use. Do your employers care for you? Do they tend to you as you have tended to them? No, of course they don't. They say there's not enough money, or not enough space— meaning none they want to spare. They would rather have you gone, even if it means the workhouse—or worse.

   Jane's own room is painfully bright after the dimness of Price's room. It's cold, too, and as she changes into her best dress she shivers hard. Halfway through the day and there is still no warmth to it; frost lies thick on the window, and what sunshine comes through it has a brittle look. Down in the street Teddy will be waiting. The thought of him used to be a knot of warmth nestled deep inside her, but not now. Not since she saw him at Mr. Popham's and wondered: How could she be this lucky? Instead the idea of him has settled around her like a snake, coiled up, cold. Dangerous.

   From the ewer she pours what little is left of the water and splashes it onto her face. At least the soot comes off with a little soap and a little rubbing, leaving her cheeks with a glow. As for her hands, there is not much help for them. They are red, the skin dry and rough, and on her right hand two scorch marks glisten wetly. A hot grate, and her not paying attention because her thoughts have been full of Teddy: how he leant towards her going up the stairs to see Mr. Popham, how he let the end of his nose brush her cheek, how he waited for her afterwards and eased her into a dark corner so he could land a warm kiss on her lips, then her neck, then behind her ear. "Teddy," she'd scolded, and laughed nervously. Not because he'd locked her in his arms, nor because they might be come upon at any moment. No, it was because she'd caught a glimpse of something in his face, a way of looking at her as a fox does a hen.

   She knows she'll be cold outside. No gloves, only her old coat and scarf to protect her against the worst of the winter. Maybe they'll go somewhere warm—he knows London, he'll have somewhere picked out. So she makes sure her hat is on straight and hurries down the stairs, her hand on the banister, her feet a little too loud on the bare stairs. In the kitchen, Mrs. Johnson looks up from her pastry. "You'd better not be back late," she says. "You'll catch it if you are."

   "She's got herself a young man," says Sarah. "Look how eager she is to get out, even though it's freezing today." Sarah gives her a tight smile. "Maybe if I make an effort, Mrs. Robert will give me an extra half day too. What do you think, Mrs. J.?"

   "I wouldn't hold your breath."

   Jane's head is down, and she fusses with a thread hanging from the cuff of her coat, as though they won't notice the blood rushing to her face. She should have known they'd be lying in wait for her. Now the first thing Teddy will see is her face burning. Will he wonder why, and distrust her just as she's started to distrust him?

   "I'll be back on time," she tells Mrs. Johnson, and with that she makes for the door, though she hears a laugh—Sarah's? She thinks so. It's hard to imagine Mrs. Johnson laughing at anything.

   He's there, back against the railings a couple of doors away, just far enough to look as though he isn't waiting for anyone from number thirty-two. Just to be safe.

   He looks up and catches sight of her. He smiles. "Well, well, well, you must have shifted yourself to get out right on time like that."

   She smiles too, then looks away quickly.

   He steps closer, so close that she's standing in the mist of his breath. "Are you all right? What's up?"

   "Nothing. Just tired out, is all. And feeling a bit down in the dumps."

   "We all get that way," he says, and holds out his elbow so she can lock her arm through his. They take off down the street, like any lady and gentleman, she thinks. Like any girl and her sweetheart. Except her arm is pinned beneath his, and she's being steered along as though she's to have no hand in her fate.

   This afternoon the city is dismal, passersby bowed against the stinging wind, cabdrivers wrapped in greatcoats, a costermonger with his thin jacket buttoned up tight, huffing as he pushes his barrow. A city of strangers and strange streets. And this man she's with—Teddy—what does she know of him? Not much, except that he comes from Devon, that he's Mr. Popham's valet, that he's eager to take her out. He picked her, didn't he? He picked her out from all the girls he must run into on the street.

   The wind buffets past, and she presses her hat to her head. Maybe that wasn't an accident. Maybe he wants something from her, something more than to kiss her and push his body hard against hers in the few moments they can be alone.

   She bends her head as though against the wind. A sob has pushed its way up her chest. When she opens her mouth and it escapes, the coldness of the wind rushes in. It finds a tooth, seems to work its way right inside it. She feels a shock of pain, and she lets out a small cry and covers her mouth.

   Teddy stops. "What's wrong?" He bends his head towards hers.

   "This tooth. It can't stand the cold. I never noticed it before. But then—" she lets herself lean into him so he can't see her face "—it was never cold like this in Teignton. Not like this."